


Sex Therapy and Gang Activity

by 0hHeyThereBigBadWolf



Series: Lover Be Good To Me [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Camelot? More Like Polylot, Do Not Re-Post To Another Site, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Feels, Found Family, Healing, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Multi, Polyamory, Uther Pendragon's A+ Parenting (Merlin), all the polyamory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-13
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27534331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf/pseuds/0hHeyThereBigBadWolf
Summary: The problem with ghosts is that you have to stir them up before you can exorcise them. It helps to have the bastards outflanked, though. Strength in numbers.
Relationships: Elyan/Gwaine/Percival (Merlin), Freya/Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), Gwen/Lancelot/Leon, Mordred/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Series: Lover Be Good To Me [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2044864
Comments: 5
Kudos: 50





	Sex Therapy and Gang Activity

“We’ve got a house.”

Merlin twists halfway over onto his back, squinting at the blurry figure above him. In the dim light, he has to blink a few times to resolve the shape into Arthur. “Ohuh?” he mumbles.

“We have a house.”

A hand reaches up and swats at Arthur, missing and hitting Merlin’s shoulder instead. “F’ck’ff,” Freya growls, the words buzzing against Merlin’s chest.

“No.” Arthur springs off the bed and walks over to fling the curtains open with a rattle of metal rings. It doesn’t really improve the lighting in the room, given that the _sun still isn’t up,_ what the fuck, but it does at least give Merlin enough light to see clearly. “We have a house.”

Giving up the ghost of sleep, Freya rolls over to face the room, squinting with one eye. “The fuck does that _mean?”_

Arthur sits on the edge of the mattress beside her, and he reaches over to shake her hip playfully. The strange cool lighting silvers his hair in peculiar gunmetal tones. “The old fuck finally kicked,” he says, his voice hushed but still brimming with emotion. “Didn’t think he had enough of a heart to have a coronary, honestly, but guess I was wrong. Ghost called me. We’ve got the house.”

Now that he’s had enough time to wake up, Merlin finally understands what’s being said and what that means. He slides his arm out from under Freya and sits up against the headboard. “Uther left you the house? What about your sisters?” he asks.

“Ghost gets the business, and Gana has the building in London. I get the house,” Arthur explains. He’s almost vibrating. “No more living in this shithole. We can finally get the hell out of here.”

Under other circumstances, Merlin wouldn’t have liked anything better. It isn’t exactly easy, finding a place that can accommodate all of them whilst still being halfway affordable, and he knows that the house Arthur is talking about isn’t just a _house,_ but the Pendragon family estate. But he also knows just how rough Arthur’s relationship is with Uther, and he still doesn’t know exactly what emotion is making Arthur buzz like this.

Freya finally sits up as well, raking her hair out of her face with both hands. “We’re moving?” she asks, sounding marginally more awake.

“We’re moving,” Arthur agrees.

She kicks at the blankets until her legs are free, pale and bare under the hem of her ‘nightgown,’ a reclaimed football jersey of Arthur’s. “What’s it like?” she asks, eyes catching the light with feline luminance.

He shrugs a shoulder. “It’s big.”

Merlin snorts despite himself. “Descriptive.”

Flashing white teeth, Arthur flips him off even as he leans in and kisses them both.

“We have a _house?”_

Leon doesn’t get polysyllabic until he’s finished his first cup of coffee, sitting at their slightly lopsided table and blinking awake. He’s got bedhead for days, curls standing up in every direction, and enough stubble to be called a beard.

Gwaine snorts past a mouthful of bacon. “Way to keep up, mate. We’ve been discussing this for the past twenty minutes now,” he says and gets a middle finger in return. Unperturbed, he turns a curious look up at Arthur. “Are you sure it’s really yours? I mean, I thought Uther disowned you lot.”

Percival and Elyan move to swat him upside the head with practiced efficiency.

Still riding on the high of whatever it is he’s feeling, Arthur doesn’t falter at the broaching of a normally-unbroachable subject. “I guess the old fuck didn’t think he’d ever die because he didn’t bother to rewrite his will. Probably thought he’d outlive all of us, just out of spite,” he answers, leaning back against the counter.

“So Morgause gets the major shares of Pen Y Draig, Morgana gets the London property, and you get the estate?” Gwen clarifies. She stands behind Leon’s chair and is finger-combing his hair into order; Arthur nods. “Well. That’s…that’s amazing. So, what’s the plan, then?”

“I say we go as soon as possible. I’d like to go to sleep without hearing you rabbits have at it,” Freya puts in.

“Come off it! Like you and Merlin don’t shag like animals.”

She narrows her eyes at Elyan. “We _are_ animals some of the time.”

In all honesty, none of them have much room to talk. The walls of their flat are so thin they might as well be wallpaper, though Arthur’s punched enough holes in them to know they’re _just barely_ thicker. Still, it means there’s a level of _intimacy_ they hadn’t expected but ended up adjusting to. Of course, it is still a little worse for Merlin, Freya, and Lance, given that they have far more acute senses of hearing.

“We can rent a lorry,” Merlin poses, chin resting on Freya’s shoulder, arms around her waist. “Two can drive it, and the rest of us can fit in Freya’s van.”

There’s a ripple of murmured agreement around the cramped kitchenette, until it’s broken by a soft, hesitant voice, “Do I get to come with?” and they all look towards the source. Mordred is perched on one of their mismatched stools like a gargoyle, bare toes curled over the edge of the seat and hood pulled up over his curly mop; he’s hugging his knees and looking at them with pale eyes that can’t decide if they’re blue or green.

There’s a moment of quiet, exchanging glances. Mordred isn’t exactly one of theirs, but he’s been crashing with them for the better part of two months now, and it isn’t like he has anywhere else to go. They have a penchant for collecting strays, though. They can’t _not_ take him.

“’Course you do,” Arthur replies.

And that's that.

Of course, them leaving as soon as possible translates into the better part of a week.

They have to put in their notices at their various jobs—the estate comes with money, more than enough for them to live off for a while whilst they get settled in the new house—and pack up all their stuff. They’re leaving the crap furniture in the crap flat where it belongs, because the house is already furnished with better things anyway. Freya and Lance have to settle matters with their pard and make sure they can keep in contact. None of them are entirely sure how dragon clans work, but Merlin leaves to see his father and doesn’t return for two days. When he does come back, he doesn’t talk about it, just starts helping with the packing as if nothing’s happened. The scaly bastards are also _secretive_ scaly bastards. Percival rents a lorry, and after a series of false starts and failed attempts, they manage to get all their various boxes packed up without anything falling out or collapsing like a game of hellish Jenga.

Almost a week to the day of Arthur making his announcement, they bid a final farewell to their hellhole flat with a middle-finger salute out the windows. Freya drives the van because she doesn’t trust any of them to drive her precious vehicle in the city; Leon and Gwen are in the lorry behind them. It takes some time to escape the general maze of the city, relying on Arthur’s less-than-accurate directions since he’s only made the trip from the estate to London once, years and years ago, and he’d been coming _into_ London, not _leaving_. Still, Freya refuses to listen to the GPS, so Arthur’s sense of direction is all they have.

Nonetheless, they make good time that day. They’ll reach the house by noon tomorrow. Of course, Freya’s van is probably older than Freya, and it gets absolute _shite_ on mileage, so they end up at a petrol station just as the sun starts setting. As Freya fills up the van, everyone plays a round of musical seats, to let someone else drive for a while and to keep the utter boredom of monotony just a little further away. After everyone’s used the loo, done some stretches, and settled some disputes with rock-paper-scissors, the end result is that Gwaine and Percival are driving the lorry, Lance is driving the van with Gwen in shotgun, Freya, Elyan, and Leon in the first seats, Merlin, Arthur, and Mordred in the back.

Arthur’s got his head on Merlin’s shoulder, just sort of lolling in that hazy not-awake-but-not-asleep place, fading in and out like bad radio when a hand comes to rest on his thigh, tracing circles on his jeans. It takes him a moment to realise. It isn’t Merlin’s hand because Merlin is sitting on his other side, and Merlin’s closest hand is still on the back of his neck, nails gently scratching over his nape.

Opening his eyes, he turns his head to look at Mordred beside him, head still down as if dozing but with eyes open and looking up at Arthur through dark lashes. The hand on his thigh inches over a little, more between his legs than on top of them now.

Arthur stares back at him. He’s never been able to really put a label on what Mordred is to him. Gana likes to treat him like either a second brother or her adopted kid depending on the day, indulging those maternal instincts of hers in constructive ways, and maybe because of that, Arthur’s always been a bit hazy on lines with him. Maybe a little too hazy on some important ones because dragons do not like to share, and Merlin has a very clear and concise list of people that can and cannot be shagged without fiery repercussions.

Except Merlin is sitting beside him, still awake, and there is no way he cannot know what’s going on because peripheral vision is totally a thing, and with those inhuman super-senses of his, he tends to know more about their surroundings than anyone else in any given situation. When Arthur looks, Merlin is still gazing vaguely forward as if nothing untoward is happening, one corner of his mouth curled just so slightly upward, and his thumbnail doesn’t stop scratching along Arthur’s hairline.

Oh.

Arthur slides his gaze back over to Mordred, still watching him with that quiet unblinking stare, hand still where it is on his lap. It says something that neither of them has to say a word, having an entirely silent conversation that involves Mordred asking if Arthur is down with this, Arthur answering abso-fucking-lutely, and Mordred replying challenge accepted.

Mordred unbuckles Arthur’s belt one-handed, smooth bastard, keeping his hand around the buckle so it doesn’t make too much noise and give away the game. Once he pulls the belt free and sets it down gently on the floor, he gets the button and zip of Arthur’s jeans open next and slides his hand directly down, slipping under the waistband of his shorts.

Arthur is already half-hard, aroused by what’s happening and the fact that they’re very literally doing this in front of (technically behind) all their friends, and he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from making a noise as Mordred grasps him. His hands have fewer calluses than Merlin’s but not by any means soft. He strokes twice, lightly, then withdraws, and Arthur almost grabs his arm to keep him there, but Mordred only licks his palm and fingers a few times before reaching back in again. Better, because whilst that extra bit of friction can feel good at first, it doesn’t later. Arthur grips Merlin’s thigh with one hand and the edge of Mordred’s jacket with the other, working to keep his breathing steady and quiet.

Mordred makes a soft sound in his throat, and Arthur risks a sideways glance at him. His curly head is bowed, teeth sunk into his lower lip and free hand gripping the edge of the seat white-knuckle hard. He wonders what’s got him all hot and bothered, considering that Arthur isn’t even _touching_ him, but when he glances back over, Merlin’s eyes are gold beneath his half-closed lids. Ah. That’d explain it then. Kinky bastard.

He’s been wound up so tight the past two days from everything that he feels orgasm coming up on him faster than he would’ve expected. Arthur bites the inside of his lip so hard he tastes blood, toes curled in his boots as he comes in Mordred’s hand. Beside him, Mordred shudders and gives a low whimper in his throat.

Merlin has all the ins and outs of sex magic worked out, so there is no mess when Mordred withdraws his hand from Arthur’s shorts. Arthur manages to do up his jeans with shaking hands, though he doesn’t bother with his belt, leaving it coiled on the floor, and he drops his head back against Merlin’s arm, keeping his breathing calm, pulse inching back down. Mordred gradually scoots closer to him until they’re pressed together all down one side, looking at Arthur through dark lashes in silent question. Arthur pulls his arm out from between their bodies and wraps it around Mordred’s shoulders. A tentative little smile greets him in return, and Mordred lowers his head to rest on Arthur’s shoulder.

Closing his eyes once more, Arthur lets himself relax between them, the warm post-orgasm buzz easing him into a doze. He’s vaguely aware of a discussion about stopping for a late dinner; when Merlin prods him in question, he only grunts, not really caring either way. The van slows and stops. After some time, the side door slides open with a loud rattle, startling Arthur back to wakefulness.

“Here, we just got everyone the usual so—” Leon stops mid-sentence, his gaze flicking between the three of them, and then he shakes his head in mock disdain. “Really? Right in front of my salad?” He tosses the takeaway bag in Arthur’s lap and closes the door again before any of them can answer.

Since multiple murder would’ve been involved in driving overnight, they decide to make a stop at a motel. Leon, being in charge of their budget as the most fiscally minded, pays for two rooms, casting a sidelong glare at Merlin, Arthur, and Mordred. They filter into one room at first with the intention of deciding sleeping arrangements, but no one’s left yet, not with Arthur pacing the length of the small room like a caged animal, all his post-orgasm relaxion evaporated.

“Are you alright?” Gwen prompts at last, watching him pace, a small crease between her brows with worry.

“Absolutely.” The word is ground out through clenched teeth. “Why wouldn’t I be?” Back and forth. Window to door. Back, forth. Window, door.

Lance doesn’t try to stop him or get in his way, but he does stand up beside the window so Arthur will have to at least look at him. “Is it because of Uther?”

Arthur doesn’t answer, but he turns away a little faster, shoulders drawing up.

“Arthur,” Lance says gently, refusing to give ground. “Are you happy your father’s dead?”

The question brings Arthur up short as if someone’s yanked his lead, whirling to stare at Lance, his eyes gone the dark blue of slate. For a moment, he only stares in silence, a muscle in his jaw ticking and throat working. “I…I don’t know,” he admits at last. “I don’t know.”

Percival peels Gwaine and Elyan off his sides and stands up, holding his palms out in front of him. Arthur immediately shifts his stance and starts hitting Percival’s open hands like he’d hit the heavybag; Percival, used to it, doesn’t flinch, barely moving from the blows.

“He was an abusive piece of shite who didn’t give a fuck about any of his kids,” Arthur says at last, words punctuated with sharp jabs. “Old fuck can rot in hell for all I care.”

“That doesn’t mean you don’t care he’s gone. You can still be upset about that without condoning what he did,” Lance points out with that same unruffled calm of his. “It’s hard not to have parents anymore, no matter the reason.”

Arthur punches Percival’s outstretched hand one last time, hard enough to make Percival take half a step back, then throws himself down onto the bed, elbows braced on his knees and hands buried in his hair. “I don’t…it doesn’t feel right to be…happy about it even if he deserves it, but…I don’t know. I know it’s good for me in the long term, but right now….” He shrugs, raking his hands back through his hair again, clutching it between his fingers. “I don’t miss _him,_ but I…I miss the _idea_ of him? Fuck all if I know.”

Mordred scoots across the bed on his knees and drapes himself over Arthur’s back, chin hooked over his shoulder, arms hooked around him. Arthur untangles a hand from his hair and rests it over Mordred’s clasped hands.

Without a word, Merlin walks between the beds, reaches down to unplug the lamp, and lifts the entire bedside table out of the way, carrying it aside. Circling around to the other side of one of the beds, he bends down to brace his hands on the edge of the frame. The others have to quickly pull their legs up to avoid being squashed as Merlin shoves the beds together, even with all of them sitting on it. That done, Merlin climbs up onto the bed, nudges Mordred away, and pulls Arthur down to the bed, curling around his back.

“We paid for two rooms,” Arthur protests.

“Shut up,” Merlin, Gwen, and Freya all say almost in exact unison as the rest of them start arranging themselves on the bed.

Even with both beds pushed together, there really isn’t enough room for all of them, but they’ve slept in worse places. Arthur ends up sort of in the middle with Merlin spooned against his back, Mordred curled into his front, and Freya sort of laying across all their legs, everyone else piling up around them. Merlin presses a kiss to the nape of his neck. Freya pets his thigh like one of her cats. Mordred just burrows his face into the crook of Arthur’s neck.

They stay there and hold him like that and none of them draw attention to the shaking of his shoulders or the hitch in his breathing.

“Holy fucking _shite._ Is that all one building?”

“Mm-hm,” Arthur grunts in reply.

“That’s not a house, it’s a _castle.”_ Gwaine leans further forward in his seat, staring up through the windscreen. “You said you were well-off. Mate, _my_ family is well-off. You’re fucking _loaded.”_

Someone grabs Gwaine’s belt and yanks him back into his seat, for which Arthur is deeply thankful. Most times, he gets on with the irrepressible lout, but he doesn’t have even a thread of patience left, just a few frayed filaments floating in the wind. The house is big, and yes, it is technically a castle, though the interior has been renovated with some more modern furnishings to keep it from being entirely medieval. The exterior is the same, though, restored with material as close to the original as is possible. The old fuck had been a stickler for appearances in all things. It’s just a good thing that stone doesn’t burn, or he would’ve lit the fucking thing on fire years ago.

“I call the tower,” Merlin says, eyeing the house.

“Hey, no fair. You can’t do that. We agreed it was first come, first serve,” Gwaine protests, leaning forward again.

Turning slightly in his seat, Merlin raises his brows pointedly and asks, “Do you want to race me there?” It’s a not-so-subtle reminder that if he wanted to, he could slip his skin and fly to the top of the tower before Gwaine could even make the foyer.

Gwaine pouts as he slumps back in his seat, arms folded. “Fine. Not like I wanted it anyways,” he grumbles; Percival pats his knee comfortingly.

Arthur ignores them, pulling up to the front and parking the van. “Come on, I’ll give you guys a tour, and then I’m getting pissed,” he says as he gets out.

As the others all clamber out, stretching out cramped limbs with relieved groans, Arthur pulls the chain from around his neck, untangling the key from his shirt. Despite the heavy, old-fashioned doors, the hinges don’t squeak when he pushes them open, opening into the spacious foyer; there’s so much space here that with the house quiet, there’s an echo.

The others file in with various exclamations of awe and surprise. Arthur shoves his hands in his pockets and clenches his jaw until his teeth hurt.

A hand presses to the small of his back, and he turns to look at Mordred, having slipped up next to him in the general shuffle. “Come with me,” he murmurs in a low voice. His hand slides over Arthur’s back to curl around his elbow instead, gently pulling.

Having seen it in the van the other night, Arthur now recognises the gleam in Mordred’s pale blue-green eyes. “Mordred—”

“They’ll be alright on their own for a bit,” Mordred insists, giving his arm another tug, and this time, Arthur lets himself be drawn aside. Away from the others, Arthur takes the lead instead and guides them down the side corridor off the foyer, back into one of the guest rooms, kicking the door shut behind them.

Immediately, Mordred throws both arms around his neck and tugs him down into a kiss, all teeth and tongue and insistent desire. Arthur groans into his mouth, reaching down to unbuckle his belt as Mordred’s eager hands scrabble at his shirt, clawing it up around his shoulders. They manage to shuck off at least most of their clothes, getting haphazardly naked as they tumble back onto the bed, Arthur atop Mordred.

“Do you know how to—?”

Mordred’s eyes flicker gold, and Arthur grins. That’s one of the many advantages which come with shagging a sorcerer—lack of lube is never a problem. Lifting up slightly, he guides himself in and rolls his hips forward. Mordred cries out under him, arching his back, nails digging sharply into Arthur’s shoulders.

“Oh, God, sorry. Did I hurt you?” he asks, holding still despite wanting to _move._ He forgets sometimes, being with more-than-human lovers, that even with magic, the average person can’t just leap right in without it hurting.

“No, no, just—” Mordred squirms under him, hitching one knee up around his waist. “I’m alright. Come on.”

“You sure?”

 _“Yes,_ Arthur, _please.”_

Lowering his head, he presses his lips to the pulse point in Mordred’s throat and starts moving. From there, it’s just the sound of skin on skin and the faint squeak of bedsprings that probably haven’t seen any action in fifteen years. Mordred gives as good as he gets, squirming and arching under him, sharp little nails scrabbling at his back and shoulders. When he comes, he bites down on the ridge of Arthur’s shoulder hard enough to leave a lasting mark, and the bright thrill of pain is enough to bring Arthur right up to and over the edge of orgasm himself, muffling a groan against Mordred’s neck.

Arthur rolls onto his back with a huff, staring up at the ceiling. “Thank you,” he says after a minute of catching his breath. “I, uh…I needed that.” This place had been getting to him already, and he needed to be able to just _feel_ and not _think_ for a moment. Without his heavybag to punish into all-over pain, a good mind-numbing shag is the best way to go. That’s the bad part about ghosts—have to stir them all up before the fuckers can be exorcised.

Mordred nods a little. “I know.” One hand inches over to clasp with his. “We’ll… talk later, right?” he asks, and his voice is a little smaller, a little more vulnerable than Arthur is used to hearing from him.

“Yeah, we will,” Arthur reassures, squeezing his hand; Mordred gives him a barely-there smile in return, a shy little upturn of his lips. “Once everything gets settled a bit, yeah.” And speaking of settling, they probably should go find the others. Giving Mordred’s hand another squeeze, he pulls away and gets up, pulling his clothes back on. “We can have dinner later, just us, and Merlin can explain the rules to you. I-if that’s something you want, I mean. Being with us,” he adds quickly, not wanting to assume. He’s fairly certain he’s not making too far of a leap, considering they’ve shagged twice in the past twelve hours, but it’s still polite to ask.

“I do, and, uhm, he already did. Sort of, anyways.” Mordred sits up, tugging his shirt down. “You’re all together, but you’re not all _together,_ and there’s rules about who does who. It’s a…pretty intense dating setup you have.”

Arthur snorts, turns his shirt right side out, and pulls it on. “Trust me, I know. It’s not even like dating sometimes. More like…gang activity.”

Mordred laughs as he shimmies back into his jeans, Arthur pausing to watch in appreciation. “Yeah, I suppose so.” Straightening up, he laughs again. “Oh, Maiden, come here. You’ve got sex hair to the nines.”

Grinning, Arthur steps over and ducks his head a little for Mordred to run his fingers through, smoothing his hair back down. Once they’ve both situated themselves into something resembling order again, they head back out into the house, following the general noise in search of the others. Arthur doesn’t really do the whole hand-holding bid, but he does throw an arm around Mordred’s shoulders, grinning a little when Mordred’s arm hesitantly goes around his waist in return. He really does feel better, more than he would’ve expected. Maybe he ought to make it a goal, shag someone in every room of the house as a last ‘fuck you’ to the old fuck. Sex therapy.

Unsurprisingly, they find the others down in the wine cellar. Arthur’s always hated the cellar for a variety of reasons. One being that when he tripped and fell down the stairs with a bottle, the old fuck had been more upset about the broken bottle than his broken wrist, another being that he’d once been left locked in here for two days after one of their little family spats. Still, he feels those sharp edges being dulled a little as they descend the stairs to find everyone marvelling at the size of the place and letting out various exclamations of shock and horror at how much some of the bottles cost.

Gwaine is currently hugging one of the racks. “My room,” he announces.

“No!” several voices say in unison.

“Jesus H. Christ,” Lance yelps, holding a bottle from one of the French racks.

Gwen peers at the label and shakes her head in disbelief. “I could sell one of these and pay for an entire _year_ at uni,” she muses.

“Go for it,” Arthur says as they descend the bottom set of stairs. “Everyone can have a shelf for themselves. Sell it or drink it, I don’t give a fuck. Have at it.”

Gwaine, having been pried off the shelf by Elyan and then picked up for his own safety by Percival, twists around to look at them, shaking his hair out of his face. He looks at the two of them, the arm Arthur has around Mordred’s shoulders, and lets out a dramatic sigh. “Oh, thank fuck. I thought I was going to have to get out the drugs to get you two naked together.”

Percival bounces Gwaine on his shoulder. Lightly, but still hard enough to make him wheeze. “Hush. We agreed, no more mushrooms.”

 _“Except_ on holidays,” Gwaine corrects. “And those two finally getting out of their own arses and into each other’s should be considered a holiday.”

Rolling his eyes, Percival swats the back of Gwaine’s thighs with his free hand, earning a loud yelp. “I said, hush.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll hide his stash,” Elyan reassures.

“Traitor.”

“Come on, there’s plenty more than this,” Arthur says, figuring it wise to get them out of the cellar before Gwaine managed to squirm free and got them all utterly foxed.

As they all start back up the stairs, Arthur catches Merlin’s gaze, and just like in the van, his dragon only smiles. Arthur remembers what Mordred had said about already knowing some of the rules, which means he and Merlin have been talking. Warmth fills his chest; he keeps his arm around Mordred’s shoulders.

Percival doesn’t put Gwaine back on his feet until they’re all out of the cellar and the door is firmly shut after them. Once he does, however, Gwaine holds up the two bottles that he’d somehow managed to grab on the way out, using his pocketknife to pry the cork out from one. Elyan manages to wrestle it away, miraculously not spilling any, and hands it off to his sister for safekeeping with a scolding, “Wine needs to _breathe_ , you savage.”

Arthur continues his tour of the house with a little more ease than before. Nobody claims the two guest rooms on the first floor, which is fair since Arthur is fairly certain they were meant for prisoners, given they only lock from the outside. And one of them also carries a distinct sex smell. Elsewhere on the first floor is the lounge and bar, the library, the kitchen, the dining hall, and the old fuck’s study. There’s another round of delighted noises when he shows them the ballroom.

“We’re having a party here,” Gwen declares, voice echoing in acoustics meant for a live band. “I’m talking tops and tails, lads.”

“Sure thing,” Arthur laughs. “I’m sure we can find outfits in the attic.”

Upstairs is basically nothing but various rooms, rooms enough for all of them and then some. “This was Gana’s room,” he says, opening one of the many doors. In rebellion of the rest of the dark, severe décor of the house, she had painted her walls the colour of Mountain Dew when she was fifteen. In contrast, the room next to it is painted the colour of aubergine and wouldn’t be out of place in the Addams Family house. “And this one was obviously Ghost’s. Looks like the old fuck didn’t renovate after we left,” he muses, eyeing the small altar to the Triple Goddess his eldest sister had erected under her window where the moonlight would reach it.

Most of the other rooms are furnished more or less the same, rows of generic rooms for when relatives would visit or guests would pass out after getting completely pissed at one of their fancy blue blood parties. He’d always hated how impersonal they felt, more like motel rooms, but now he finds he doesn’t mind so much because now it means that they’re blank, ready to be made individual as they all spread out, scattering to find their own rooms and staking their claims with calls of, “Mine!” echoing in the halls.

Arthur pushes open a door he’d been hesitant to approach. “Master bedroom.” These furnishings haven’t changed a bit from last he saw them either, right down to the enormous four-poster bed.

“Ours,” Merlin says in a voice that leaves no room for argument.

Arthur almost starts to argue, but to his own surprise, he finds that he doesn’t really _want_ to. The master bedroom is the only one with a bed big enough for all three—well, now four—of them, not to mention that great big Jacuzzi tub he knows is in the adjoining bathroom has some very _interesting_ possibilities. So instead, he just nods.

“Can we still have our own rooms?” Mordred asks tentatively. “It’s just…I don’t sleep sometimes, and I’m not used to…”

He trails off into uncertain quiet, but Arthur knows what he means to say. It’s a lot to get used to all at once, so many people in such a complex relationship, and even now they all sometimes need their own breathing room, spaces that are for themselves and no one else. “Sure. There’s more than enough of them,” Arthur agrees, giving Mordred a gentle squeeze ‘round the shoulders, and he gets that tiny shy smile once more. Arthur thinks he would do quite a lot to keep seeing that smile.

“Where’s _your_ old room?” Freya asks, walking tucked under Merlin’s other arm.

Arthur hesitates a moment, but Mordred squeezes his waist under his jacket, and Merlin rests a hand between his shoulder blades. He leads them away from the master bedroom down to the opposite end of the corridor; he goes to the last door and pushes it open.

Freya frowns, staring into the stark room furnished only by a dresser and a bedframe with a naked mattress. “I thought you said Uther didn’t change any of the rooms.”

“He didn’t.”

A heartbeat’s pause, a split second of understanding, and she moves faster than any human rightly could, reaching out and slamming the door shut so hard there’s a sound of wood splintering. A screw falls out of one of the hinges with a metallic plinking. There’s silence after that, deep and solemn.

Right up until Gwaine’s voice rings loudly up the corridor, shouting from his bedroom balcony. “Mate, is that a fucking _hedge maze?”_

It is a hedge maze. There’s also a garden that’s overgrown into a wild tangle of green and a pool that Gwaine immediately flings Elyan into with much shouting and swearing.

After Elyan slogs back in the house to change into dry clothes, they all spend a good hour getting tipsy by passing around the wine bottle and chasing each other around the hedge maze. Once the first bottle runs dry, they flop down on the lawn and open the second one. There’s not enough to get them drunk, not with their alcohol tolerances and inhuman metabolisms, but there’s a warm buzz nonetheless.

Arthur sprawls out on his back in the lush grass, staring up at a sky streaked with the candied hues of evening. Freya is holding his head in her lap, stroking his hair and gently scratching her nails on his scalp. Merlin is sat on her other side with Mordred leaning against him, head nodding more and more often. Gwaine is sprawled out spread-eagle on the grass in the middle of the loose circle they’ve made. Elyan is finishing off the second bottle with Percival, his feet propped up on his sister’s lap. Gwen has collected a handful of flowers from the garden jungle and is braiding them into Leon’s hair. Lance has already been florally adorned and is stretched out like the lazy cat he is, his feet tangled with Leon’s, head resting on his arms, which are folded on Arthur’s shins.

He’s almost asleep, eyes slipping closed longer and longer, but he rouses when Freya’s thighs tense under him, just as Lance’s head comes up and Merlin turns his gaze ‘round as well. “What is it?” Arthur asks, sitting up on his elbows. He hasn’t heard anything, but that doesn’t mean anything. They can hear better than he could ever hope to.

“Someone’s pulled into the drive,” Freya replies, eyes slightly narrowed.

“Two people,” Merlin adds, head cocked to one side.

Arthur is about to get to his feet and walk over to the fence, see who it is, but before he can get his legs out from under Lance, the lock on the side gate rattles open. He exhales slowly as he recognises the two people who step in through the gate, even in the hazy half-light. “Gana. Ghost,” he greets, staying where he is.

“Runt,” Morgause answers, the upward twist of her mouth belying her cool tone.

Morgana crosses the lawn in heels that could be used as weapons without even wobbling, coming to stand over them with hands on her hips. “Traitor,” she accuses, narrowing her eyes in mock-betrayal at Mordred; he gives her a drowsy smile in return. Her gaze roams across the rest of them before coming full circle to Arthur. “Well, I see Uther’s rule about not bringing home strays died with him.”

“Mm, a moment of silence,” Arthur says, then blows a raspberry.

Morgause snorts a laugh as she approaches. “Any of that left?” she asks of Elyan, who holds up the bottle in reply. It still sloshes a little when moved. She kicks one of Gwaine’s legs out of the way and sits down on the grass with it.

Morgana lowers herself to the grass with a little more grace given that she’s in a skirt, having to tuck her legs up under her to avoid flashing anyone. “I take it we’re too late to call dibs on the master?”

“Naturally. Your rooms are still here, though,” Arthur replies.

She nods, twisting a few blades of grass around her fingers and pulling them up slowly. She opens her mouth as if she means to say something, then just presses her lips together and reaches over to lay cool fingers on Arthur’s wrist.

Arthur turns his hand over, palm up, and Morgana moves her hand into his. Turning his head, he reaches out with his other hand to grasp the toe of Morgause’s boot, the closest of her he can reach, giving her foot a shake; she raises the bottle in silent salute.

Keeping hold on both of them, he shifts to lay back down on Freya’s lap, watching the blended-paint colours of evening cool and darken, tiny flecks of stars appearing. Arthur breathes in the green scent of the garden, listening to the faint song of insects and the murmurings of his family, finally together in a house that can finally be a home.


End file.
